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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28041276">Happy Accidents</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/elkleggs/pseuds/elkleggs'>elkleggs</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slagathor99/pseuds/Slagathor99'>Slagathor99</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Captain America Steve Rogers, Captain America Steve Rogers/Modern Bucky Barnes, Caterer Bucky Barnes, Chef Bucky Barnes, Condoms, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, M/M, Making Out, Shrunkyclunks</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:35:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,978</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28041276</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/elkleggs/pseuds/elkleggs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slagathor99/pseuds/Slagathor99</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky and Steve have a date planned. A nice, romantic date. With, of course, some fun plans for "dessert."  Which works great, because Bucky is pretty sure he's beginning to fall for Steve. Unfortunately, their kitchen equipment has other plans.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>152</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Not Another Stucky Big Bang 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Happy Accidents</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Wow wow wow it's finally here!!! This was kind of stressful, but I'm so glad my little baby is out!!!</p><p>I want to give the most humungous shoutout to my incredible artist, @elkane. She is so funny, sweet, and talented that I am utterly in shock that I was given the honor to work with her!!! What an absolutely gorgeous queen.</p><p>Also, thank you so much to @dreadlockholiday for providing me with a modicum of sanity these days. You are amazing and I am so lucky that we're friends.</p><p>Most importantly, thank you to YOU for reading! Hope you enjoy!!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Red or white?” Bucky asks, one hand holding the phone to his ear, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat. Both hands are sweaty, even as he’s trying his damnedest to maintain a cool exterior, both for his sake and the rest of the customers in the liquor store, who don’t need to see a fully grown man having a nervous breakdown over which bottle of wine he should buy for someone he’s newly dating.</p><p>He’s also staying calm, of course, for the sake of the man on the other end of the line. The cause of Bucky’s nerves in the first place. And the one whom Bucky is trying to treat, is trying to spare from any further anxiety. Because fuck if the guy doesn’t get enough stress from his day job.</p><p>“Which do <em> you </em> like better, Buck?”</p><p>Bucky rolls his eyes like Steve can see him. Which, given the man’s actual superpowers and his access to the government’s top security satellites, might be true.</p><p>“I don’t know. I’m trying to treat <em> you, </em> here,” Bucky replies, turning down an aisle. He spies some cotton candy vodka high on a shelf, and while that would be more than fine for Bucky to drink alone in his apartment, with their steak and mashed potatoes (and salad, because it’s Steve), he’s guessing Steve wants something of a more refined taste.</p><p>“Bucky, sweetheart, I couldn’t care less. I just wanna spend time with you. I don’t care what we’re drinking,” Steve reminds Bucky gently.</p><p>The reminder is part and parcel of dating Steve -- he’s always stupidly kind and considerate. Goes hand-in-hand with the “Captain America” title, probably. Bucky doesn’t like thinking about <em> that </em> too much because it makes his head spin -- what’s a superhero doing dating a lowly caterer? -- but it’s a reasonable explanation. Of course, Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if Steve’s flexibility and kindness is just honest-to-god Steve Rogers.</p><p>Still, it’s a fifth date. A relaxed, cooking-dinner-together, chill fifth date, of course. But, if the package of condoms Bucky is anxiously clutching in his pocket is any indication, an auspicious one, too.</p><p>Bucky wants to make it good, both dinner and whatever (god, hopefully) comes after. Especially since he’s coming straight from work (an obnoxious baby shower), so he already doesn’t look his best. Making it good would be easier if Steve just told him what wine he liked though.</p><p>“But if it sucks, then I can just drink it to get drunk so I taste it less, but you don’t have that option.” Bucky stands on tiptoe and grabs down the cotton candy vodka, to check the price, ostensibly. If he puts it in his basket, well, that’s between him and his wallet.</p><p>Steve laughs, loudly, on the other end, and it makes Bucky smile half-heartedly. “I can just stop drinking it, you know.”</p><p>“Always the martyr,” Bucky teases, a smile cracking his anxious scowl, just a bit. Steve has a habit of making Bucky do that.</p><p>“Comes with the job description, champ,” Steve says in a fake, over-the-top, platonic ideal of a Captain-America voice. Bucky can practically see Steve flipping him off on the other end of the line through stifled giggles.</p><p>“You’re a dork,” Bucky informs him, moving on from the vodkas to another aisle and considers a Pinot Noir. Red goes well with red meat, but Bucky doesn’t want to buy it if Steve doesn’t like it. Of course, if Steve doesn’t like red with red meat, well, that’s a considerable detractor to Steve’s personality that Bucky will have to keep in mind. (Of course, if liking white wine with red meat is Steve’s biggest flaw, which is the way it’s looking, Bucky’s unequivocally won the boyfriend-lottery.)</p><p>“Well, you’re the one dating the dork,” Steve replies smugly.</p><p>That makes Bucky drop his gaze from the Pinot’s price tag and smile stupidly at the floor. He <em> is </em> dating Captain America. Is very happily dating him. Made-it-official-last-week levels of happily dating. Is-holding-a-condom-he-hopes-to-put-on-Steve’s-dick-later levels of happily dating.</p><p>“I’ve never claimed to have good taste in men, Steve.” Bucky’s trying to tease, but his voice is sappy and sheepish, his grin bleeding through, so the effect is lost.</p><p>Steve fakes a hurt gasp, and it makes Bucky feel warm all over, like he’s laying in bed way too late on a Saturday morning and the sun is trickling through his window, lighting up his nose and cheeks and chest. Like he feels when Steve hugs him. Bucky would honestly cook Steve dinner just to be able to hug him, really.</p><p>“You wound me,” Steve says dramatically.</p><p>“Well, your lack of a preference in wine wounds <em> me. </em> Is red okay? It’ll work with the steak.”</p><p>“You’re the expert, Mr. Caterer, sir. Though, if I’m honest with you, I’d be happy with a five-dollar bottle of piss-tasting vinegar, long as you share it with me.”</p><p>“That’s just the kombucha you can’t get enough of, Steve,” Bucky ribs gently to avoid how Steve’s mushy declaration makes him feel gooey all over, like chocolate left in a hot car. Bucky’s comment, while avoidant, is true -- practically Steve’s entire pantry is dedicated to flats of gross kombucha. It makes Bucky’s stomach turn, but Steve drinks three or four a <em> day, </em> like a fucking madman.</p><p>“You’re a dick. Get the least expensive wine you deem acceptable, okay?” Steve teases.</p><p>“Don’t test the cheapskate in me, Steve,” Bucky replies.</p><p>“I wouldn’t dream of it.”</p><p>Bucky wanders into the correct aisle and plucks a bottle of respectable-looking, twenty-dollar Cabernet Sauvignon. “I found a Cabernet Sauvignon. That good?”</p><p>“Yeah, Buck, sounds great. I got the groceries this morning, so as soon as you get here we can start.”</p><p>“Amazing. I’m gonna pay for this. Be there in half an hour?”</p><p>“Sounds great. See you soon.”</p><p>Bucky hangs up and tucks the phone into his pocket, the other hand still holding the condoms. He hopes, despite the fact that he smells like a marshmallow threw up on him (he <em> hates </em> catering baby showers), that his braid is messy, and that Steve might hate the wine, everything goes okay. <em> God, </em> he hopes so.</p>
<hr/><p>Half an hour later, Bucky’s in the hallway of Steve’s building, cheeks pink from the cold, but a broad smile stretching across his face. He’s taken off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his still-on chef’s whites (<em> fuck </em> baby showers planned against the evening rush hour) despite the fact that he’s fucking freezing. It’s on purpose, though: Steve fucking loves Bucky’s tattoos, and Bucky likes showing them off for Steve. The first time Steve saw them, Bucky’d been pretty sure Steve had nearly drooled. Bucky <em> does </em> love to please, after all, so it’s really just a simple courtesy to roll up his sleeves for Steve’s enjoyment.</p><p>
  
</p><p>Steve answers his cheerful yellow-painted door the door maybe three seconds after Bucky’s knocked, enough time that Bucky’s not sure if Steve was waiting for Bucky to arrive or because Steve decided to sprint over to the door. Either way, it makes Bucky feel special and excited. (Like that’s a new feeling around Steve, who asked him to <em> waltz </em> the first time they met. Bucky’s always being swept off his feet by Steve).</p><p>The feeling is enhanced by the fact that Steve is wearing a fucking “Kiss the Cook” apron, because of course he is. It’s the perfect amount of cheese and low-key sexiness that Bucky likes about Steve. He pulls it out all the time, to the point that it’s just a signature move of his.</p><p>The first time Bucky had seen the move was on their second date. They saw some ridiculous space movie that Bucky couldn’t have given less of a fuck about. Steve wore a fucking two-sizes-too-small T-shirt garishly emblazoned with the main characters of the franchise. It was so cheesy that Bucky half-expected Steve to reveal it was a gag to see if Bucky had any sort of fashion sense (especially seeing as Bucky only wears jeans, T-shirts, chef’s whites, and the occasional Oxford shirt for, like, weddings and funerals).</p><p>Point being, Steve looked like an adorable, albeit entirely way too buff, little fanboy to the point of ridiculousness. Which was precious, even though it made Bucky seriously question Steve’s taste in movies, since Bucky cared about <em> Space Renegades 6: Lost in Mercury </em> about as much as he cared about the stock price of JP Morgan Chase (very fucking little). Really, the reason Bucky chose the movie was because it was loud and he was hoping they’d be able to make out in the back without interruptions.</p><p>In the end, they hadn’t <em> not </em> done that, of course, but once Bucky saw the stretched out collar of Steve’s poor painted-on T-shirt in the fluorescent lights of the lobby afterward, he’d felt like a piece of shit. Steve had wanted to actually watch the movie, and Bucky had gone and horn-dogged it up.</p><p>Once Bucky apologized, though, Steve laughed like Bucky was a fucking dumbass. Which wasn’t wrong, in the end, since it had kind of been a joke. Steve had wanted to impress Bucky because he thought Bucky was obsessed with the franchise, so he’d bought the shirt the day before.</p><p>In the end, it had all worked out fine. They’d laughed it off and tease the other for it now. Still, it made Steve’s brand of cheesiness, which was just a mask for his conscientiousness, all the better to Bucky.</p><p>Because Steve is an adorably thoughtful dork. Like now, he looks like a nervous sixteen year old on a first date. His hair is combed meticulously and he’s wearing an obscenely tight, soft-looking blue sweater under the apron. Even though he’s just barely opened the door, Bucky <em> knows </em> he smells cologne. Not bad, too much Axe Body Spray, teenage boy kind of cologne, but subtle, musky <em> man </em> cologne. Bucky even hears some light jazz playing from the speakers Steve admitted splurging on when he first discovered Bluetooth in this century. Steve’s a fucking romantic.</p><p>Bucky looks a bit like a schlub in comparison, his already-mussed French braid tangled from the wind, still wearing his chef’s whites and tight black jeans that his ex said made his ass look great. And, yeah, Bucky’s ex sucks, but his opinions on Bucky’s ass were usually accurate. Still, Bucky’s come straight from work, so he knows he doesn’t look as amazing as he’d hoped. Nothing compared to Steve.</p><p>Still, Steve immediately helps level the playing field and butter Bucky up. Steve’s eyes immediately flash to Bucky’s bare forearms, his pupils dilating just enough that Bucky notices and feels rewarded for taking off his coat. Bucky beams and is about to tease Steve for it, but Steve teases him first.</p><p>“Hey, Buck. You survive the liquor store okay? I know it got pretty intense there for a minute,” Steve jokes, voice honey-sweet.</p><p>Bucky mentally rescinds the romantic comment -- Steve’s sweet, but he’s an asshole.</p><p>Either way, when Bucky rolls his eyes, Steve immediately smiles wide like they’re sharing a secret. Which, Bucky supposes, they kind of are. It’s not like Steve posted from the fucking official Captain America Twitter account that Bucky’s bad at buying liquor for someone he cares about (barring anything cotton candy-flavored, of course. Bucky’s an expert at purchasing that). It’s just a little in-joke between the two of them. Bucky loves that, for the simple reason that he and Steve get to laugh together, that they have evidence of time together.</p><p>“You’re an asshole,” Bucky says, beaming, his words holding absolutely no venom behind them.</p><p>“And yet you bought me wine, so I must be at least a little special,” Steve goads, crossing his arms over his apron and leaning against the doorframe.</p><p>The movement makes his biceps flex through the sweater, and a little more cologne to waft toward Bucky. <em> Fuck, </em> the condoms are burning a hole in Bucky’s coat pocket. He wants Steve so bad in every way.</p><p>It isn’t exactly a novel thought -- Captain America has practically a hundred thousand videos dedicated to it on Pornhub -- but it <em> is </em> novel that Bucky actually gets to have it. Gets to have it <em> tonight. </em></p><p>“I’m not so sure about the whole ‘bought you’ thing, Steve. You better Venmo me for this 20-dollar wine. I’m not a fucking Rockefeller.”</p><p>Steve grins, catlike. “Who’s to say I didn’t already?”</p><p>Bucky’s eyebrows furrow, perplexed, and he pulls his phone out of his pocket. Sure enough, there’s a notification that Steve has sent him the price of the wine, the message a little wine glass emoji followed by a pink heart emoji.</p><p>“Steve, I was kidding.”</p><p>“It’s my apartment, so it’s my treat, babe,” Steve assures smoothly.</p><p>Bucky stares down at his shoes to keep himself from preening at the “babe,” but it must not be working because he can feel Steve’s pride radiating in waves off of him. Bucky knows he’s doing his best sappy puppy dog eyes, not because he’s begging for anything, but because he’s just a touch overwhelmed by the pet name, the thoughtfulness, and Steve’s general loveliness.</p><p>“You like ‘babe?’” Steve prompts.</p><p>Bucky knows the question is rhetorical, but he nods anyway. He’s rewarded when Steve uncrosses his arms and stands up straight, right in Bucky’s personal space, right there in the hallway, in front of anyone who cares to leave their apartment at that moment. Bucky knows Steve is making use of every bit of their scant two-inch height difference, and Bucky likes that so much.</p><p>“I’m glad. Now, wine disagreements aside, can I give you a kiss to say ‘Hello?’ I’ve missed you,” Steve asks, smirking just enough to make Bucky go hot under the collar.</p><p>“You saw me three nights ago.” Bucky is by no means protesting, but it’s still fun to rile Steve up sometimes.</p><p>He doesn’t take the bait, though. “And? I missed you.”</p><p>Bucky softens his smile into something like a blush and wraps his arms, one hand still clutching the paper bag from the liquor store, around Steve’s neck. His chest bumps Steve’s, and it makes Bucky feel tingly all over. He can feel Steve’s muscles even through the sweater and the apron and his own coat and thick shirt, can feel Steve’s warmth radiating through him and making him feel cozy and excited.</p><p>Steve returns the gesture in kind, winding his hands under Bucky’s open coat but over his chef’s whites and settling tight around Bucky’s waist. Steve’s so nice and close like this. Bucky can count every single freckle that dots his cheeks and fades into his well-kept beard. He definitely is wearing cologne, but it’s subtle and nice. Probably bergamot if Bucky had to guess, but he doesn’t really care because he’s about to kiss Steve.</p><p>Except Steve just ducks down and bumps Bucky’s nose with his before pulling back up. It would be sweet if it wasn’t just a few bare millimeters short of where Bucky wants him.</p><p>“No teasing,” Bucky complains.</p><p>“Who’s to say I’m teasing? Maybe I just missed. Haven’t kissed a whole lot of people since the forties, ya know? Maybe I’m just woefully out of practice.”</p><p>Bucky rolls his eyes. “You’re the worst.”</p><p>Steve opens his mouth to protest that, but then Bucky’s on tiptoe and kissing him instead. Steve falls into the kiss, one of his hands lifting from Bucky’s waist to his cheek, cupping it lightly and making Bucky <em> melt. </em></p><p>Steve’s lips are warm and soft and gentle. Absolutely perfect and fucking <em> relaxing. </em> Bucky could kiss Steve forever, never need or want anything but this. Though, Bucky won’t complain if he gets to make use of his condoms.</p><p>After a few moments of Steve’s soft breaths, just when the blood is beginning to rush elsewhere, Steve gently pulls back. Bucky swears he can feel Steve’s obscenely long eyelashes on his cheek when Steve’s eyes flutter back open.</p><p>Bucky feels a little dizzy, and he’s pretty sure Steve is feeling the same way from the way he looks slightly woozy and mostly happy.</p><p>“Well, now that that’s out of the way, shall we get cooking?” Steve says brightly, turning and holding the door for Bucky. Bucky has no idea how Steve seems that unaffected. Of course, the guy’s had aliens explode in his face before, probably, so maybe it’s all in a day’s work. Bucky’s still absolutely blown away, though. Steve does have a little tinge of pink, high on his cheekbones and the tips of his ears, though. Just enough of a hint that Steve is touched, too, albeit in his own stoic, nearly-unaffected way.</p><p>Bucky, however, practically stumbles over the threshold into Steve’s apartment, still wrapped up in the kiss. The apartment doesn’t help Bucky at all -- it’s such a <em> Steve </em> apartment that Bucky feels a little lightheaded, a little overwhelmed. In a good way, though, like when he looks through Steve’s Twitter mentions late at night (after a shot or two of cotton candy vodka), or when he’s being spooned by someone he likes a lot.</p><p>The apartment, even though it’s overwhelming, is undeniably nice. There’s cozy blankets strewn on every possible seating area including a fleecy blue one that Bucky is immediately determined to steal at some point. The walls are lined copiously with bookshelves, and Bucky’s not <em> quite </em> sure, but if he had to guess, he’d wager that Steve has arranged them with the Dewey Decimal System. Each room Bucky can see from the open floor plan is painted different shades of yellows and blues, and there’s an obscene amount of houseplants everywhere. Steve has nothing close to a green thumb by his own admission, so Bucky’s pretty sure at least half of them, if not more, are plastic. Either way, it makes the apartment cheery and welcoming.</p><p>On the well-painted walls hang some careful, near-photorealistic, sketches and paintings of faces that Bucky recognizes from his high school history textbooks. He’s pretty sure Steve made all of these himself, which makes Bucky feel full and buzzy with pride.</p><p>The best part of the apartment, hands-down, though, is the smell, Bucky decides immediately. It smells like Steve -- laundry detergent and fresh air from the windows Steve has propped open, plus a bit of smokiness from the fireplace Steve said he likes running from October through April. It smells cuddly and sweet, and Bucky wants to wrap himself in it.</p><p>Bucky knows that everything in this apartment is all Steve. He has a weird, sterile, hotel-style apartment at Avengers Tower over the East River. Bucky’s been there once, after their third date, has seen how fucking depressing it is. This is Steve’s little enclave, when he’s not working or doing press or just not needed at the Tower. It makes him, and, by extension, Bucky, happy.</p><p>His first few months out of the ice, according to Steve on their third date, his home here had been just as empty, but he’d brightened it up within the last year or two. Something about needing to start living.</p><p>“May I take your coat?” Steve asks with such increased formality as to be comical. It shocks Bucky back to the present, and to the fact that not <em> only </em> does Bucky get to be in a very nice apartment, but he also gets to be in a very nice apartment with the even nicer owner of it.</p><p>“Only if you do a fake British accent and pretend you’re my valet,” Bucky teases to break some of the tension of the kiss and the gorgeous apartment and the Steve-ness of it all.</p><p>Steve shuts the door behind Bucky and locks it before turning back to Bucky. “Shame. I’ve never been good at accents.”</p><p> Bucky untucks his scarf from around his neck and stuffs it in his olive-colored coat’s pocket. “How does that work?”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Steve asks gently.</p><p>“Don’t you have to do, like, espionage or whatever in your line of work? How do you do that without accents?” It takes everything in Bucky not to throw up sarcastic air quotes around “line of work,” but he manages. It’s a hell of a lot less awkward than asking “How does being Captain America work?”</p><p>“I leave that to Natasha,” Steve replies easily. He grabs Bucky’s coat, brushing their hands together. If it was anyone else, Bucky would have accepted that as a happy accident. Because it’s Steve, Bucky knows it was entirely on purpose.</p><p>Steve hangs Bucky’s coat up on his little wooden coat tree. Steve towers over the thing, and Bucky could have easily just hung up his own damn coat, but it’s sweet and chivalrous and makes Bucky feel nice inside.</p><p>For his own part, he toes off his shoes, leaving himself in his blue Starry Night-patterned socks, and tugs out his wind-ruined French braid, fluffing his hair gently with his hand. It’s certainly not the smartest thing Bucky’s ever done, seeing as how they’re about to be cooking again, but Bucky wants his hair to look better than a messy French braid for Steve. Sue him.</p><p>“How’s Alpine?” Steve asks through a smile, turning back to Bucky.</p><p>Bucky beams back softly and looks down at his feet. Leave it to Steve to ask after Bucky’s pride and joy, his cat, without even being asked. Alpine and Steve are best fucking friends -- the first time they’d met, when Steve had walked Bucky to his door after their first date, Alpine had practically gone ballistic, shoving her fluffy cheeks into his pant legs until Steve paid attention to her. Of course, Steve was wearing black pants, so Alpine’s white fur ruined his nice look, but Steve couldn’t have cared less.</p><p>Since then, whenever Steve doesn’t actively get to see Alpine, he’s asked after him, so Bucky’s made sure to take good pictures of the cat. And of himself, of course, since he’s the one, you know, actually <em> dating </em> Steve. Either way, Bucky’s coworker had taken a gorgeous snap of them during a game night at Bucky’s house the other night. He’s wearing a hoodie that brings out his eyes, and Alpine looks as chubby and perfect as ever.</p><p>“Alpine’s swell. Wanna see a cute picture?”</p><p>Steve nods readily, so Bucky takes his phone out and shows Steve the sweet photo.</p><p>
  
</p><p>“What a gorgeous guy,” Steve says softly. Just when Bucky’s beginning to absolutely preen from the compliment, Steve adds, “Plus the man holding him isn’t too bad either.”</p><p>Bucky flicks him on the shoulder without any malice, and it just makes Steve grin devilishly because they both know what game he’s playing here. He knows teasing Bucky makes them both feel warm and snuggly and jokey. It’s absolutely working, too. </p><p>“Well, looks aside, we gotta get cooking. Shall we?” Steve suggests, breaking the moment gently. As much as Bucky was having fun, you can’t stare into someone’s eyes, all gooey for them, forever.</p><p>“Yeah, let’s do this.”</p><p>“Awesome. I got you your own apron,” Steve says proudly, making his way past Bucky and into his kitchen.</p><p>It’s a New York City kitchen, so it’s a bit cramped, but it’s scrubbed sparkling and is neatly organized, so Bucky can’t complain. He’d bet his last paycheck on the fact that Steve spent at least an hour or two cleaning it with full superhero effort by the way Steve’s eyes dart nervously from the gleaming countertops to the shining floor.</p><p>Which is just as well, seeing as they’re spending their date cooking in here. Well, most of their date.</p><p>Bucky can’t help but be excited about the end of the night, especially while looking at Steve in his own kitchen. He practically dwarfs the entire thing; broad shoulders stretching to take up nearly all the space between the cabinets, narrow waist dominating the bit of room between the sink and the island, huge hands making a mockery of the little pot he lifts down from the rack above the stove. Bucky wants Steve to pick him up and fucking throw him.</p><p>There’ll be time for that later. Now, he’s making dinner with Steve. For them to eat in a bit, hopefully with Bucky’s chintzy wine and candles and maybe a nice tablecloth. Maybe they can eat dessert in bed. Knowing Steve, though, he’d probably be too militant about crumbs to even consider such a thing.</p><p>“I know you’re wearing chef’s whites already, but I thought you might like an apron, anyway, if that’s okay.” Steve might actually sound sheepish. He’s blushing even more and looking down at his socked feet, a hand coming up to cup the back of his neck.</p><p>The words feel like they’re only hitting Bucky now, only as Steve has the gall to be embarrassed by his kindness. “You got me an apron?”</p><p>Bucky feels all squishy on the inside, even more than before. Steve is <em> that </em> thoughtful? Bucky has chef’s whites of course, which are probably better than an apron in a million and a half ways. But Steve is so <em> considerate. </em> Bucky would be a monster if he didn’t accept. Plus, then he and Steve might be matching, which was kind of a mushy thought, but one Bucky liked nonetheless. Steve got him a fucking apron.</p><p>“Of course.” Steve’s expression looks all squishy and soft too, like the inside of a caramel. He recovers quickly, though, and adds,, “Besides, what kind of person would I be if I didn’t get my sous chef an apron?” Steve now seems aghast, hand over his heart like Bucky’s suggested something truly offensive.</p><p>That makes Bucky quirk an eyebrow. “Sous chef? Last I checked, I was the caterer here. You know, the job where you plan menus and execute them with a staff of half a dozen cooks,” Bucky retorts sarcastically. He even flips his newly loose hair over his shoulder for comic effect, but based on the way Steve’s eyes fervidly follow it, it might not be <em> that </em> comical for Steve.</p><p>Bucky sets the bottle of wine and the still-bagged cotton candy vodka on the counter to distract himself from the <em> very heady </em>fact that Captain fucking America maybe-might-sorta-kinda think Bucky’s hair is sexy. If Steve keeps feeding Bucky’s ego this way, Bucky might bite the bullet and just pay for the three hundred dollar hair curler he’s had his eye on for a while.</p><p>Steve rolls his eyes, opening the drawer next to the stove and pulling out a carefully folded piece of black fabric. “Sous chef,” he confirms. “Last I checked, this is my kitchen.”</p><p>“I literally went to culinary school. You’ve burned water,” Bucky argues, hopping up onto the granite countertop and kicking his socked feet indignantly.</p><p>“Every great chef has to start somewhere. You’ll understand that in a few years, when you become executive chef,” Steve replies, sounding aloof, even as he taps Bucky on the nose playfully.</p><p>Bucky’s nose wrinkles. “However, some ‘great chefs’ are better than others. Like me being a better chef than you, for example.”</p><p>“Hey,” Steve warns teasingly, sticking his finger out at Bucky the way you’d chastise an annoying child. “If you’re not careful, I will rescind your apron.”</p><p>“Now, now, don’t go getting all crazy.”</p><p>“So you accept the title of sous chef?”</p><p>“Never.” Bucky shakes his head vehemently.</p><p>“What if we made it ‘Executive Sous Chef?’ Would that soothe your fragile ego?”</p><p>“Only if ‘sous’ is in parentheses.”</p><p>“Ooh, tough sell. I’ll have to talk to upper management about that.” Steve leans on the counter, and he’s almost in Bucky’s personal space, but not quite. Bucky would be fine if that changed, however.</p><p>“‘Upper management?’ You’re the executive chef of this fine establishment and yet you don’t have managerial control? Some Executive Chef,” Bucky huffs.</p><p>“Careful, Buck. Your apron is on the line.”</p><p>Bucky rolls his eyes and snatches the apron out of Steve’s hand before Steve can taunt him any longer. Bucky unrolls it and huffs at the message. In white block letters it says “Mr. Good-Lookin’ is Cookin’.” Bucky can’t help but snort, an awful, honking sound that would be embarrassing if not for the way it makes Steve’s eyes light up.</p><p>“You like it?” Steve prompts, leaning just a bit closer to Bucky under the pretense of making sure Bucky’s telling the truth, even though Bucky would guess Steve just wants to get close to him and make him blush.</p><p>“It . . . is certainly an apron,” Bucky replies.</p><p>“Wow. He’s speechless,” Steve teases.</p><p>“It’s definitely funny.”</p><p>“And accurate.” Steve pops a quick, wet kiss on Bucky’s cheek, the kind that would make him groan and wipe his cheek if anyone else had done it. As it is, Bucky just scoffs and blushes like an idiot.</p><p>“You’re a sap.”</p><p>Steve pulls back, nodding with acknowledgement, and grabs a cookbook from the counter. “Alright, Mr. Good-Lookin’. Let’s check out the recipe.”</p><p>“I swear, if this is your new nickname for me, I will be pissed,” Bucky declares.</p><p>“Why? It’s accurate.”</p><p>Steve’s comment should be saccharine, should make Bucky annoyed, but it just makes him blush and smile down at his socked feet. “It’s cheesy and stupid is what it is,” Bucky retorts weakly.</p><p>“Does that mean I need to change your name in my phone?”</p><p>Bucky groans and covers his face with his hands. “If you weren’t so cute, Steve, I swear . . .” He shakes his head as he trails off, looking at Steve through the gaps in his fingers.</p><p>Steve grins wolfishly. “Guess I’m lucky then, huh?”</p><p>“Guess you are,” Bucky agrees, hopping down from the counter.</p><p>“So, the first thing is to, um, boil some potatoes,” Steve announces, reading from the recipe. His hands make the <em> Joy of Cooking </em> look tiny, which makes Bucky grin at the same time that it turns him on.</p><p>He sidles up next to Steve, ostensibly to look at the cookbook, but really just to get in Steve’s personal space, to press his hip into Steve’s, feel Steve’s side on his. Steve is warm, always, and it never fails to make Bucky sleepy and lazy and happy, like a little house cat nesting in its favorite sunbeam.</p><p>“Well, <em> first, </em> we need to chop the potatoes, Mr. Executive Chef,” Bucky corrects without malice, pointing to where it specifies four potatoes, quartered. It’s almost like he’s the one who, you know, writes recipes for himself for a living. </p><p>“Ah, of course. What would I do without you, my little Sous Chef?”</p><p>Bucky rolls his eyes. “Where are your potatoes? And that’s <em> Executive </em> Sous Chef to you, mister. Also: ‘little?’”</p><p>“Potatoes are in the pantry. And you’re smaller than me,” Steve points out, like Bucky’s not always conscious of and incredibly aroused by that fact.</p><p>“So? I’m still not little. An elephant’s smaller than a whale, but an elephant’s not little,” Bucky corrects. He goes over to the pantry and opens it to grab the potatoes. He half-expects the thing to be chock full of protein powder and, like, legumes, or whatever keeps bodybuilders looking like they do, but it’s surprisingly normal.</p><p>There’s three jars of peanut butter, two crunchy, one smooth. There’s a plethora of different snacks, all in various stages of being eaten. The only thing really out of the ordinary is the insane collection of Oreos. Bucky counts at least six different varieties at first glance, and he mentally jots that down for birthday or Christmas presents.</p><p>“You calling me a whale?” Steve says to Bucky’s turned back as he grabs the potatoes out of a bowl on the bottom shelf.</p><p>“Yep,” Bucky replies, turning and running the potatoes under the sink to wash them off. “A big, chubby one. With a remarkably loud blowhole.”</p><p>Steve comes up next to Bucky and leans his back against the counter, watching Bucky scrub the dirt off the potatoes. “There are a lot of innuendos right there, Bucky. I can’t even choose which direction to go in.”</p><p>“Get your mind out of the gutter,” Bucky complains playfully, scrubbing the dirt out from one of the potato’s eyes. You could never be too careful about that: he’d had to almost fire one of his prep cooks for getting dirt in the scalloped potatoes once.</p><p>“You could make jokes about how big whale cocks are, or whatever you were attempting to imply with the ‘blowhole’ comment-”</p><p>“You really are the worst.”</p><p>“-or, perhaps the best avenue, you could make a <em> lot </em> of jokes about the sperm whale-”</p><p>“Are you going to help or just make whale dick jokes to me while I cook you dinner?” Bucky retorts, his voice warm and fond. He likes Steve <em> because </em> of jokes like this. “I could just go back to work, you know.”</p><p>“Nah,” Steve replies, stretching languidly. “You’re an Executive Chef at work. This is prep work. A sous chef’s job.”</p><p>Bucky nods, pretending to be cool as a cucumber as he sets the last potato aside. “Steve, I swear. . .”</p><p>“I’ll help as soon as the prep is done, sweetheart,” Steve says, his tone obnoxious and condescending.</p><p>“Of course, of course. I would never ask such a lordly executive chef to assist in such a lowly task as washing and cutting potatoes.”</p><p>Steve nods coolly. “I’m glad you agree.”</p><p>Bucky wets his hands and pulls back like he’s going to turn off the sink, but instead flicks his hands at Steve, spraying him with water.</p><p>Steve is actually startled for once, jumping a bit before grinning devilishly. “Did you just assault your executive chef?” he asks, voice comically incredulous.</p><p>Bucky smirks and turns off the tap, drying his hands and the potatoes on a few paper towels. “Yep. What are you gonna do about it?”</p><p>“Hmmm, that’s a good question. Probably harbor resentment for a few years before moving on and discussing it in therapy.”</p><p>Bucky chuckles at Steve’s candidness. “Okay, that’s fair. Can you hand me a knife, please?”</p><p>“After what you just did? I have experience in the army, Buck. You think if I’d captured the Red Skull, I’d just give him a knife?” Steve says all dramatically. He’s fluttering his eyelashes and it would be annoying if Bucky didn’t find it cute and endearing and sexy all at the same time.</p><p>“What I <em> think </em> is that you’re mixing your metaphors, buddy. Am I a prisoner or a sous chef? Now, could you hand me a knife, please?” Bucky asks, trying and failing to keep a smirk off his face at Steve’s goofiness.</p><p>“How do I know you’re not both a prisoner <em> and </em> a sous chef?”</p><p>“A knife, asshole?” Bucky’s grin is splitting his cheeks.</p><p>“Can I trust you with it?” Steve asks gravely.</p><p>“If you can’t, you can just throw me like you boasted you could earlier,” Bucky reminds him.</p><p>“Hmmm.” Steve taps his fingers on his chin in an exaggerated impression of deep thought. “After some careful consideration, I have decided to trust you with a knife, on the condition that I get to supervise you. After all, sous chefs do need training.”</p><p>“And what does supervising entail?” Bucky goads as Steve opens a drawer and starts rummaging through it.</p><p>“Light commentary, minor adjustments, maybe a kiss or two,” Steve replies lightly.</p><p>“What counts as minor adjustments?” Bucky asks, choosing to ignore the “kiss or two” comment for his own sanity (and to avoid fainting right then and there, ruining any chance of a nice dinner).</p><p>“Well, as your executive chef, I gotta make sure you don’t cut yourself or anything, you know? It would be negligence on my part. I don’t wanna get sued.” Steve pauses his rummaging to reach up to a cabinet, grab down a green plastic cutting board, and pass it to Bucky.</p><p>“Would you even get sued, or would ‘upper management?’” Bucky replies, using what he hopes are biting air quotes.</p><p>“Upper management, of course. I’m too valuable to the restaurant,” Steve shoots back, resuming his search through the knife drawer. His stance over it makes his peach of an ass obvious through his jeans, and it’s making Bucky feel blushy and hot all over.</p><p>“This is sounding more and more like an ego-stroking roleplay scenario, Steve,” Bucky teases to distract himself from the sight.</p><p>“Why’s that so bad? There something else I should be stroking, babe?” Steve stands up straight, knife in hand, eyebrow quirked. It should be stupid and dumb and a complete turn-off, but fuck if Bucky isn’t getting a fucking boner just from Steve goofing around and looking gorgeous doing it. If Bucky didn’t know they were going to fuck later, he’d be weeping now. As it is, he wants to flick Steve for being <em> that </em> immature.</p><p>“That’s low-hanging fruit and you know it,” Bucky replies instead.</p><p>“You know what else is low-hanging fruit?”</p><p>Bucky widens his eyes with mock innocence, head quirking to the side like he’s thinking deeply. “I’m not sure. What did you have in mind?”</p><p>“Oh, I was gonna make a joke about balls.” Steve’s completely deadpan, and it makes Bucky laugh out loud, a snorting kind of laugh that vaguely reminds him of how people laugh at misogynistic jokes.</p><p>“I had no idea,” Bucky says, still giggling like a five year old.</p><p>“I’m a master of jocular misdirection. Alright, sous chef, we getting our shit done?” Steve asks once Bucky’s cooled down a little.</p><p>“Did you just say ‘jocular’ unironically?”</p><p>“Yes. Now, I’m gonna pass you the knife. You gonna be responsible with it?”</p><p>Bucky rolls his eyes and takes the knife. It’s heavy and solid, a good chef’s knife. It could do with a little bit of sharpening, but Bucky doesn’t mind too much. This’ll work fine, especially just for potatoes that don’t need a particularly neat or fine cut, since they’ll be mashed later and all. He places it down on the cutting board, still feeling joy in his veins like warm honey.</p><p>“Is this acceptable, Mr. Sous Chef, sir?”</p><p>Bucky nods, happy and sincere. He knows Steve is actually just a bit anxious. He’s wondering if his cooking equipment is okay, wants to make sure Bucky’s having a good time. Bucky is fine with stopping the teasing and just putting Steve at ease.</p><p>Bucky can’t keep the happiness off his face, honestly. He loves how <em> easy </em> it feels with Steve -- there are no fronts being put on, nothing Bucky’s feeling anxious about presenting or covering up. It’s just two people, making jokes and (ostensibly) cooking dinner together. Bucky could live like this.</p><p>The first time they’d met, the ease had been instant. It had been a charity gala Bucky’d been catering. Steve had been working the room since he was, well, him, and, <em> God, </em> he’d been good at it. People were obviously nervous to meet him, paragon of charity and war hero and everything that he is, but Steve put them right at ease. Asked them easy questions, made them laugh. He had been remarkably good at it, but it was the normal celebrity-meeting-randos that Bucky had seen from the kitchen a thousand times.</p><p>It was after everyone had gone home, when Bucky was helping pack up the tables and the last of the Sterno, when Steve approached him. Bucky was sweating like a pig, his hair had been a tangled mess, and he definitely smelled like the bacon-topped canapes he’d made earlier that evening. But Steve had sought Bucky out to thank him for catering because the guy was a mensch in every fucking possible way.</p><p>They’d talked until Bucky was locking the venue behind him, and Steve had slipped Bucky his number, and Bucky had texted him the next day in between a tasting for a wedding and a bat mitzvah, and they’d gone on their first date that weekend, to get ice cream. It was nice with Steve. It was easy.</p><p>Not easy in a neither-of-us-are-trying kind of way, but easy in a it-feels-comfortable kind of way, easy in a we-can-be-relaxed-with-each-other kind of way. Easy in that Bucky looked forward to telling Steve about his day. Easy in that they never had to work hard to make conversation. Easy in that they could tease each other for hours and never get offended or bored. Easy in that Bucky was excited for tonight partially because he’d get to jump Steve’s bones and partially because he’d get to spend the night, get to be with Steve for a few hours longer than he normally would.</p><p>“We’re getting our shit done,” Bucky agrees after a moment.</p><p>“Alright. First, babe, we gotta get you ready. Can I touch you?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah.” Bucky wants to make another shitty double entendre, is about to, but then Steve’s suddenly in his personal space, and Bucky’s <em> melting. </em> His breath catches in his throat and it feels like he’s humming, like a tuning fork that is singing at just the right frequency. Steve’s so close and big and soft in his sweater, and Bucky doesn’t know why he’s right there, right where Bucky could duck forward and kiss his high cheekbones, but he’s not complaining.</p><p>Plus, Steve’s hands are moving, up, up and then they’re in Bucky’s <em>hair.</em> Bucky’s got long hair for a reason: he likes when it’s touched, pulled on, albeit gently. He likes it when <em>Steve’s</em> touching it, his hands warm and huge and oddly soft.</p><p>And touching it is, of course, what Steve’s doing, finger-combing the knots out of Bucky’s hair and away from his face. Bucky would be hard if he wasn’t so surprised, taken so off-guard. It’s nice, firm but not mean, sending goosebumps up and down Bucky’s arms and neck and torso. He can feel them on the tops of his fucking thighs. It feels like the little tingling scalp massage you get before a haircut. Clean and nice and safe.</p><p>“What’s up?” Bucky mumbles, feeling like he’s tripping over his tongue. He wants to say something like, “Oh, my god, Steve, that’s a huge erogenous zone for me and you’re <em> touching </em> it, and I really like that, and I don’t know <em> why </em> you are but I really like that you are, and you asked, which is really sweet, and, man, I am so fucking happy I took my hair out of the French braid and I’ll never, ever braid it again if you keep touching it like this.” As it is, his mind full of bees or something, he’s just happy he manages to get “What’s up?” out.</p><p>“Just putting your hair up, Buck. Don’t want you getting anything in it or something,” Steve replies easily, like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t have Bucky turning into melted taffy right in fucking front of time.</p><p>“Do you even have a hair tie?” Bucky asks weakly, incredulous, practically slurring. Because of course that’s what his mind comes up with: not “Oh, gee, Steve, I really like my hair touched” or “You are the most thoughtful person in the entire universe how the fuck did I end up getting to date you?” or even the most accurate: “Guh.”</p><p>No, Bucky had to sound brusque and rude and disbelieving.</p><p>“Yeah. You like scrunchies better than ties, right?”</p><p>“Uh, yeah,” Bucky says, dumbfounded.</p><p>“Okay, good. I was pretty sure.” And Steve pulls a midnight blue scrunchie out of his fucking pocket because of fucking course he does, and twists it around Bucky’s hair. The scrunchie is <em> nice. </em> It’s something Bucky would buy for himself. It looks velvety and shiny in the lights of Steve’s kitchen, and it feels soft and sweet in Bucky’s hair.</p><p>Steve winds it a few times, and there’s a little tugging, but nothing bad. Bucky wants to say something that could maybe, just possibly, begin to attempt to appreciate Steve as much as Steve certainly fucking deserves right now, but he’s practically mute.</p><p>“You could probably do a better job, but I’d say it’s passable,” Steve says, stepping back from Bucky.</p><p>“You got me a scrunchie?” The words are a colossal effort, but Bucky spits them out. He hopes he’s not drooling. Yeah, he’s a thirty-year-old man who owns his own catering company and has has his fair share of life experiences and romantic gestures, but this fucking scrunchie has Bucky falling to his <em> knees. </em></p><p>“Yeah, you said your old ones were getting stretched out. It’s not a big deal,” Steve says, just a bit sheepish, huge hand cupping the back of his neck.</p><p>Bucky can’t handle Steve acting sheepish about this. Steve got him scrunchies. Steve <em> did his hair. </em> “Fuck, Steve,” Bucky mumbles, because he’s <em> that </em> eloquent.</p><p>“I just didn’t want you to get your hair messy. It’s selfish really, cuz I jusr like looking at it, and I really wanted to touch it.”</p><p>
  <em> “Steve.” </em>
</p><p>“Buck, don’t worry about it.”</p><p><em> “Steve,” </em> Bucky repeats for lack of a better way of expressing himself. He knows he’s doing his best impression of the stupid bottom-face emoji, but he can’t fucking help it. How did he wind up with <em> Steve </em> of all people on his hands?</p><p>God, he’s lucky.</p><p>“It was no biggie. Get your apron on, Buck. Let’s get cooking.”</p><p>“It <em> is </em> a biggie,” Bucky insists. Bucky feels full and warm all over. It’s too much for him to even tease Steve about making him wear an apron over his chef’s whites. Of course, like Steve is really <em> making </em> him. Bucky would wear the apron any day of the week, even if he was in the middle of a two hour-long service for a bunch of spoiled brats who’d tell him his caviar was too salty. He’d fucking wear it to the gym, to the doctor, to fucking court, just because Steve got it for him.</p><p>“God, you’re fucking amazing,” Bucky mumbles lamely.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah. You’re just buttering me up so I quit calling you my sous chef,” Steve replies, clearly trying to break the tension.</p><p>It doesn’t work. Steve looks like the platonic ideal of a boyfriend: cuddly and thoughtful, a little bit of pink on his cheeks from the warm room and the setting sun catching his hair golden. Steve should be in an advertisement for, like, an online dating service or something, not standing in his kitchen doing Bucky’s fucking hair.</p><p>Bucky’s absolutely won the lottery. No one’s ever been this thoughtful for him since, like, his mom when he was packing for college. Bucky can’t get over this so easy, like Steve wants him to because it’s making Steve blush.</p><p>Steve bought Bucky <em> scrunchies. </em> No one’s ever gotten him scrunchies without him marking it down specifically on, like, a birthday wishlist or something. The fact that Steve even thought in the first place that Bucky would need to tie his hair up has Bucky going weak in the knees, much less that Steve knows that Bucky’s scalp is sensitive and he’ll want a scrunchie because it’s gentler.</p><p>And Steve looks almost sheepish about it, like he did something <em> wrong, </em> not something incredibly thoughtful that makes Bucky want Steve’s cock somehow more than he does already. More than his cock, Bucky wants to just <em> love </em> him, and maybe they’re not there yet, but fuck if this wasn’t a big step in the right direction. Either way, Bucky’s feeling something new, a fresh, hot blossom in between his ribs and above his stomach that Bucky worries he’ll faint if he thinks too much about. </p><p>“I wanna kiss you,” Bucky mumbles quietly. He’s pretty sure that, if not for the super-hearing, Steve wouldn’t have heard it, or at least dismissed it as the rumblings of an incredibly horny man who kind of wishes that they could wait on the dinner-making until after Bucky’s made use of his package of condoms.</p><p>“I think we can make that happen,” Steve replies, just a twinge of huskiness in his voice, the only sign that Bucky falling head over heels for him is affecting him at all. Bucky would hate to face the guy in a debate: he has a poker face like a madman.</p><p>Bucky shuffles forward, and Steve takes another half-step toward Bucky around the island, but it’s more like a whole step because Steve’s just <em> huge, </em> and then their lips are pressed together again.</p><p>Bucky’s hands are on the small of Steve’s back now, feeling his disproportionately tiny waist and huge arms through his soft, cozy sweater. Steve’s so warm and muscly and at the same time as Bucky can’t wait to ride Steve’s ass into next Sunday, he also can’t wait to just cuddle him, to spend nights just curled up and talking to each other and sharing, like, a slice of leftover cheesecake or something.</p><p>Steve, for his part, seems to be agreeing in kind. He’s kissing back with fervor, hands roaming everywhere from Bucky’s lightly stubbled jaw to his just-done updo to his shoulders and sides and ass. Yeah, Steve’s hands definitely like Bucky’s ass. He’s fucking kneading it, and it makes Bucky shiver a little because, yep, Steve’s hit another erogenous zone, and Steve fucking smiles into Bucky’s mouth, the little devil.</p><p>Steve stumbles forward, or maybe Bucky stumbles back, because suddenly they’re pressed against the counter, kissing <em> hard. </em> It’s cold on the small of Bucky’s back, but his chef’s whites are thick and Steve is plenty warm against Bucky’s front, so Bucky doesn’t mind. It’s hard to mind anyway when Steve fucking Rogers is using all his best tricks on your fucking tongue.</p><p>Bucky wants Steve so bad, likes him just . . . so much. Which, hell, maybe isn’t eloquent, but it’s accurate. Steve, based solely off of how aggressively yet delicately he’s kissing Bucky, feels the same.</p><p>As it is, Bucky’s hand scrabbles back to grab the counter, maybe hoist himself up to wrap his legs around Steve’s waist, but his hand doesn’t hit the granite. Instead, he lands squarely on one of the still wet potatoes, and the way his weight is, he nearly tips precariously in the direction of bonking his head square into the cabinet.</p><p>Thank God for super-reflexes, because Steve immediately yanks at Bucky and pulls him back upright. Steve pulls back after, immediately on high alert. He looks like the newspaper images of him from the Battle of New York: stoic, determined, and capable. The image is only a little bit ruined by how kiss-swollen Steve’s lips are.</p><p>“All good?” Steve asks, breathing just a bit harder than normal.</p><p>“Hit the potato. Balance,” Bucky pants by way of explanation. Bucky’s not even sure if his heart is pounding because he almost slipped or because of the heated kiss. He knows he sounds a bit shell-shocked, but how could he not? He went from nearly dry-humping the hottest, most thoughtful, <em> sexiest </em> man on the planet to nearly beaning himself because of a fucking potato in the space of three seconds.</p><p>“Jesus,” Steve laughs breathlessly. “Thought something bad happened.”</p><p>“It was about to,” Bucky replies.</p><p>Steve quirks a nervous eyebrow, but Bucky’s quick to reassure him. “Nothing, like, bad-bad. I was just about to forget completely about dinner,” Bucky says quickly, hoping the innuendo is obvious.</p><p>Steve sighs sharply and nods, taking another half-step back and letting Bucky stay pressed against the counter. Steve’s looking hot and bothered himself, the front of his apron portraying the barest hint of an erection, his cheeks rosy, his eyes dark and shining. “Got it. Got it. Yeah. Potatoes,” Steve says gruffly.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah. Potatoes. Apron first,” Bucky mutters, turning and grabbing the apron from where he abandoned it on the counter. He feels a bit soupy, going from <em> Steve’s hands in his fucking hair with a fucking scrunchie </em> to hot makeout to romantic dinner date in just about five minutes. The apron is nice, a bit stiff from its newness, but soft. Bucky hopes he looks okay in it.</p><p>“Alright, Good-Lookin’. What are we cookin’?” Steve asks once Bucky’s apron is all set. He seems to have composed himself, his hair smoothed down and his sweater and apron straightened. The only sign he’s at all still affected by Bucky is the fact that the tips of his ears are still pink.</p><p>“Well, first we need to cut the potatoes. I’ll get right on that,” Bucky announces lamely. How Steve appears back to normal is beyond Bucky.</p><p>“Do you want help?” Steve offers. “You know, a sous chef needs guidance and all that.”</p><p>Bucky’s brain practically shuts down. Help? What does “help” mean? Is it just more condescending comments? Or, like, is there an innuendo Bucky’s missing here? He wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case -- he’s still a bit woozy from the kiss. “Help?” Bucky repeats in lieu of a coherent answer.</p><p>“I wanna touch your hips while you cut the potatoes,” Steve explains plainly. He at least has the grace to blush after his clarification. “I promise I won’t be, like, a hazard or something.”</p><p>
  <em> “Oh.” </em>
</p><p>“Oh” is right. Steve wants to touch Bucky. Wants him like Bucky wants him. Which, you know, shouldn’t be a surprise seeing as Steve is the one who asked Bucky to make dinner with him and invited him over and just kissed the ever-loving shit out of him, but still. Something hits different about hearing the man you want desperately agree that, yeah, he wants you right back. Bucky blushes.</p><p>“I won’t if it’ll be dangerous or something. You’re the expert here-”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, of course you can help.” Bucky blurts out. Any excuse to touch Steve is, well, an excuse to touch Steve. Good enough reasoning in Bucky’s book.</p><p>Bucky turns around to face the counter and picks up the forgotten knife. He’s sweating like he’s nervous. God, what is he doing? He’s quartered about half a million potatoes in culinary school alone. Why is he suddenly anxious about it? It’s just some potatoes and Steve. Who’s sexy and amazing and makes Bucky wanna shove his ass-hugging jeans down and fuck right here.</p><p>Which is <em> way </em> too sexy a thought for cutting fucking potatoes. So Bucky shakes his head violently and exhales, sharp. <em> Professionalism, Barnes, </em> he thinks furiously.</p><p>Steve comes up behind Bucky, close and sweet, almost a hug, and plants his hands on Bucky’s hips. His palms are huge and heavy and warm, and the weight feels good at the same time that it feels like lightning. Not to mention the way Steve’s fingers nearly encircle Bucky’s whole waist. Bucky can feel Steve’s warmth, his breath, and Bucky wants to melt back behind him. He picks up a potato, and Steve squeezes his hips gently.</p><p>“You know, I think I heard you called me the expert in cooking. Is that accurate?” Bucky mutters to keep himself from whining or just going and grabbing the condoms already.</p><p>“Sous chef, you need to focus. You’re handling sharp equipment,” Steve mumbles back. His voice is vibrating Bucky’s entire being, low and soothing and gentle. The way one talks when they’re sleepy or just waking up or just . . . comfortable. Which seems to be the case.</p><p>Bucky begins to cut the potato, when Steve interrupts him by commenting, “You’re doing amazing, babe. Might promote you one of these days.” He’s back to his gentle teasing tone, and that’s not at all a bad thing. Makes Bucky feel all giggly.</p><p>“You sound like you’re in a shitty porno,” Bucky shoots back, like that’s a bad thing. Steve would probably make any shitty porn great -- he’s so fucking earnest that he could take shitty dialogue and make it gold.</p><p>“Yeah?” Steve questions, kissing the back of Bucky’s neck lightly. Bucky supposes that makes sense -- it’s just right <em> there </em> for Steve, and Steve’s said he loves his neck a million times before. The goosebumps are back, and Bucky nearly shudders. He refocuses on the potato in his hands -- just one more cut, then it’s quartered and he can move on to the next one -- but Steve is still there.</p><p>“What are you doing?” Bucky can’t keep the goofy smile off his face even as he asks it.</p><p>“Your neck’s just all <em> here. </em> I can see your tattoo.” The tattoo in question is one of Bucky’s first, a set of mountains at the top of his spine. Steve’s told him a million times that he loves Bucky’s tattoos. The one of Alpine on Bucky’s arms in particular gets Steve all excited.</p><p>“Glad you like it,” Bucky says, trying to keep his breath from shaking.</p><p>Steve kisses it again, quick and soft. “What’s the point of putting your hair up if I can’t enjoy the fruits of my labor?” he questions as he pulls back.</p><p>“‘Labor?’ You seemed pretty fucking eager to do it.” Bucky hopes the fondness in his tone can convey that he’s not really upset, not anything close to it, but is just teasing. Of course, he is dangerously close to popping a full hard-on in his jeans instead of the little half-boner he has going now, and his pants do <em> not </em> have room for that, so maybe it wouldn’t exactly be a bad thing if Steve backed off, just a bit.</p><p>“I was,” Steve agrees, moving his kisses from the nape of Bucky’s neck to behind his ear. And <em> oh, </em> that’s a lot.</p><p>Bucky lets go of the potato and reaches behind him, puts his hand over Steve’s on his hip. “Steve, babe, wanna get started on chopping the onions?”</p><p>“I’m happy here,” Steve mumbles in reply.</p><p>“My jeans are not the jeans for this,” Bucky says quickly.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Steve smiles against Bucky’s ear and pulls back after one final kiss to Bucky’s mountain tattoo. “You havin’ a good time, then?” Steve asks, somehow lascivious even as he’s walking across his kitchen and pulling an onion out of his pantry.</p><p>“You know, you really aren’t helping yourself in the ‘straight-out-of-porn’ dialogue arena, buddy.” Bucky doesn’t even look up, doesn’t wanna see Steve’s little happy/sexy/surprised smirk that Bucky just <em> knows </em> he’s making. Doesn’t wanna add <em> that </em> to the mental image of them, maybe in an alternate universe, where Bucky’s a lot more strapped for cash and Steve isn’t a national hero, of making a porno together. One of them could get an Onlyfans in this world, maybe, if Steve dropped his rigid moral code. Lord knows Steve’d absolutely <em> rake </em> in cash.</p><p>“Maybe that’s my intention. I’m almost a hundred -- maybe it’s time for me to retire and do something a bit more rewarding. I’d let you co-star in my debut film, if you ask nice.”</p><p>God, fantasy-Steve is now a retiree, has streaks of gray in his beard and at his temples. Bucky needs Steve in this world to lay off, though, just for a bit. Just until the fucking steak is in the oven, at least. “Steve, the <em> onions. </em> We can’t have dinner if you’re flirting instead of chopping,” Bucky reminds him, finishing a second potato and moving it into a little pile next to the chopped-up remains of the first.</p><p>“Who says I’m flirting? Maybe I’m just considering my future career choices.”</p><p><em> Fuck, </em> if Steve’s huge hands fucking <em> ruined </em> Bucky’s updo live on camera for anyone to see. . . .</p><p>“Onions, Steve. Porn’s for later,” Bucky declares boldly, waving his knife for emphasis.</p><p>“Hey, Buck?” Steve’s tone is suddenly so gentle that Bucky looks up from his careful quartering to make eye contact with Steve. The man is standing there, looking so fucking innocent somehow, his eyebrows narrowed with concern.</p><p>“Are you still feeling okay with that? It’s okay if you wanna wait, or talk about it more.”</p><p>Because of course only Steve would pivot jarringly from porn jokes to making sure Bucky still wants to have sex. <em> God, </em> Steve’s a gentle, considerate motherfucker. Bucky would tease him for being able to pivot so suddenly and sincerely, but he can’t bear to do that to someone who’s clearly letting a bit of their soul lay bare.</p><p>“I’m good,” Bucky reassures him. “I’m really, really good.” Bucky doesn’t have a shade of sarcasm in his body, and Steve seems to notice, his shoulders settling down his back just a bit.</p><p>“Okay, okay. Can never check in too much, ya know?”</p><p>Bucky goes back to his potatoes, a dopey smile on his face as he fills a pot with water to boil them in. It feels domestic, the two of them in comfortable silence with jazz playing lightly in the back, like they’ve been married for ten years and this is just their routine. Steve’s had a long day administering freedom or something (Bucky’s addled fantasy-brain doesn’t think that far) and Bucky’s decompressing from a consultation with a bridezilla, so they just cook together, trading kisses and bites of whatever they’re making After, maybe they’ll cozy up in one of Steve’s copious throw blankets because the guy hates being cold almost as much as he hates injustice.</p><p>Bucky wants that so bad that he needs to shake his head to refocus on the here and now. He turns the front burner on and dunks the potatoes into the pot before going to check the recipe. Steve is dutifully chopping his onion in a neat, even dice that Bucky’s pretty sure would make his actual, trained cooks jealous. Maybe that’s why Steve’s the executive chef.</p><p>Either way, Steve smiles over at him while Bucky thumbs through the recipe. Bucky can see, superserum or not, his eyes are just a bit red-rimmed from the onions, and it makes Bucky soften even further internally -- even Steve isn’t impervious to a mean onion.</p><p>“Chew mint gum,” Bucky says absently, drumming his fingers on the recipe book and wondering where Steve keeps his kitchen twine.</p><p>“Huh?” Steve asks. “You complaining about my breath?”</p><p>Bucky snorts, looks up at him. Steve has a knife in hand and his apron neatly tied. He looks like the platonic ideal of domesticity. Bucky’s domestic fantasy expands without warning -- maybe there’s a kid in a highchair in the back, waiting for them to finish cooking and they keep fawning over her in between stirring.</p><p>But that’s, like a lot for a fifth date, so Bucky just stammers out, “No, for the onions, dumbass. It’ll help with the burning.”</p><p>Steve nods, looks down at his onion like it’s an annoying email that he doesn’t want to reply to. “I don’t suppose you have any with you?”</p><p>Bucky nods, grateful for the tiny escape to let his hormones soothe from the rolling boil they’re currently sitting in. “Yeah, I got it.”</p><p>“Sounds good. I’m gonna pop the tomatoes into the blender for the sauce,” Steve announces.</p><p>“Be right back.” Bucky heads back down the little hall to Steve’s front door and coat tree where the gum is stored in his jacket pocket. Conveniently next to the condoms. Which isn’t exactly a planned thing, seeing as that’s just Bucky’s gum pocket and the condoms happen to be in there, but it does make him smile a bit. Bucky just knows he’s making a really good choice here.</p><p>Steve’s simply incredible. He checked in with Bucky, made sure everything was okay before they even did anything. Sous chef comments aside, Steve respects Bucky to the ends of the Earth, values his comfort and safety incredibly. Enough to buy Bucky special scrunchies and do Bucky’s hair for him. Enough to make sure Bucky still wanted to have sex despite the copious amounts of emojis Bucky had sent Steve when he announced he’d picked up the condoms.</p><p>Bucky figures part of that is growing up how Steve did -- he was small, and scrawny, and sickly. Women, much less men, maybe weren’t into that, or tried to be and gave up part way through. Really, they just weren’t good enough for Steve. They were goddamn fools, of course: one look into Steve’s huge blue eyes, and any rational person would be a goner. </p><p>A bigger part of it, though, if Bucky had to guess, is just Steve’s, well, Steviness. He’s stupidly kind and sweet and generous constantly. Even when he was younger, when he had nothing, he’d volunteer or give his gorgeous paintings to kids. Steve’s told him about it. He’s selfless. He’s so, <em> so </em> kind. He’s so determined, too, in a way that makes Bucky’s heart feel all full.</p><p>Superhero-ing is certainly a good use of all that, and maybe porn too, especially about the selfless thing, if Bucky’s honest, but Bucky can’t help but appreciate all of the little things Steve does the most. Like scrunchies or checking in about sex or hugging Bucky while he cuts the stupid potatoes.</p><p>Bucky’s about to slip back into fantasy-land, but a whirr of machinery and a scream from the kitchen shakes him straight out of that.</p><p>“Oh, shit!” Steve’s voice yells.</p><p>Bucky’s heart drops -- Steve doesn’t really ever yell, Bucky hasn’t heard it except for an old documentary special where a grenade almost took Steve out. Is something bad happening? What if, like, fucking Red Skull’s ghost or something is in the kitchen?! Steve doesn’t have his shield or anything! Bucky doesn’t even know where he keeps it, doesn’t know how to be helpful in this situation.</p><p>Either way, he scampers to the kitchen, gum still in hand, fully prepared to . . . what? Take out a baddie with a stick of gum, a velvet scrunchie, and a whole lot of determination?</p><p>Bucky would do that for Steve, though, unquestionably.</p><p>Thankfully, there’s no man stalking menacingly around the kitchen island monologuing about his evil plan while Bucky’s potatoes simmer in the background. No dude is standing there with a machine gun and, like, a black leather trench coat using a walkie-talkie. No woman in a bizarrely revealing corset and impractical heels is smiling lecherously at Bucky. While all that’s good, something bad clearly has happened, seeing as nearly the entire kitchen looks like a murder scene.</p><p>A tornado of some kind of red liquid that Bucky <em> really fucking hopes </em> isn’t blood is smeared around the entire kitchen: on the cabinet doors, the counters, the floor, the kitchen equipment, the fucking rack of pots and pans above the stove. It almost reminds Bucky of a gruesome murder scene in a shitty D-list horror movie, blood spread so copiously around a set that it’s not even scary anymore, just kind of gross and uncomfortable.</p><p>Steve’s in the middle of it all. Except for several streaks of red on his face, in his hair and beard, on his neatly creased apron, all over his sexily soft sweater, he seems hale and healthy, if a bit shell-shocked. His eyes are wide and surprised, surveying Bucky at the same time as he’s looking over the entire, red-stained kitchen.</p><p>“Steve?” Bucky asks, eyebrows creeping into his hairline. “What the fuck? Are you okay? Is this fucking blood?”</p><p>“I’m fine. It’s just tomatoes. I was blending them and I had a, um, minor blender accident,” Steve supplies, gesturing to the counter. It’s definitely the epicenter of the blast: the blender is sitting on it, absolutely dripping with tomato juice and chunks that would look like fleshy viscera if Bucky read too much into it. The spray is in a vague circle around the blender, like a bomb went off in it.</p><p>“Minor blender accident,” Bucky repeats.</p><p>“Yeah. Um . . . yeah.”</p><p>“What happened?” Bucky asks, still startled, but at least a little calmed by the fact that Steve’s not hurt.</p><p>“I was blending them for the sauce, and I, um, forgot the lid. I, uh . . .” Steve trails off slowly. His cheeks are flushed nearly to match the mess in the kitchen. “I was thinking about something, um, and I guess it, uh, slipped my mind.”</p><p>“‘Something?’”</p><p>“Uh, honestly? I was thinking about you and how excited I was for later. And the way your hair looks really good like that.”</p><p>“Fuck,” Bucky says, almost without his own volition. Steve was thinking about . . . <em> him. </em>Was distracted enough by him to do, well, all this.</p><p>Sure, it’s fucking stupid and made a mess of the entire fucking kitchen. But it’s also so fucking sweet.</p><p>Steve’s such a fucking dumbass. Bucky’s dumbass.</p><p>Bucky’d certainly do the same, would get wrapped up in Steve and made an idiotic mistake.</p><p>It’s honestly so sweet and sexy, and it’s all Bucky can do to keep himself from getting a truly gigantic ego from it. He, <em> he, </em> Bucky Barnes, who drools in his sleep and basically talks to no one except his cat on a regular basis, made Steve create a disaster in his kitchen. By doing nothing but <em> being. </em> Albeit being while flirting heavily, sure, but still.</p><p>And Steve is still standing there. Covered in tomato juice and his eyes still a bit watery from the stupid onions. He looks so embarrassed yet simultaneously so <em> sweet, </em> like an adorable dog who chewed on something it shouldn’t have. Steve has such a good puppy dog face, too, and he’s not quite making it, but he’s not far from it either. His eyes are big and blue and so sweet and abashed, and his blush is crossing the bridge of his nose now. </p><p>Best part of all the flattery is that the tomato-juice everywhere is just <em> funny. </em> No one’s hurt. No one’s upset. It’ll be a bitch to clean up, but who cares?</p><p>“I’m sorry-” Steve begins.</p><p>“Steve, no, God,” Bucky stammers, biting his lip hard to keep from laughing or crying from Steve’s sweetness or some weird combination of the two.</p><p>“It got everywh-”</p><p>“And we’ll clean it up. You know how fucking flattering this is? Christ.” Now it’s Bucky’s turn to blush. He looks down at his socks, noting that he’s bare centimeters from tomato-ing them as well. He honestly couldn’t give a fuck, though. Steve <em> wants </em> him!</p><p>He can’t hold back now, lets out a high-pitched, hysterical giggle.</p><p>“Still, our date-”</p><p>“Can I kiss you?” Bucky interrupts, still chuckling. Kissing Steve is suddenly all he wants. Bucky doesn’t even care that he’ll get tomato all over his nice ass-hugging jeans and chef’s whites and apron and special socks.</p><p>None of that matters when Steve is, well, Steve.</p><p>“Yeah, Buck, sure.”</p><p>So Bucky shuffles through the muck on the floor, not caring about his ruined socks or the wet, squishy feeling as he steps through it. He just wants Steve.</p><p>Steve appears to be feeling the same way, because he meets Bucky in the middle and ducks down before Bucky can even make a bad joke about the state of the kitchen. Bucky’s hands wind into Steve’s hair greedily, ignoring the tomato in it, instead just feeling how soft it is, loving how good it smells even through the tomato.</p><p>It’s slow, and it’s soft, but when Steve puts his huge hands on Bucky’s hips, hovering just above R-rated territory, he can’t help himself. Bucky moans into Steve’s mouth, a sweet, soft, mewl that should make him cringe and hide his face, but he can’t because Steve apparently <em> loves </em> it. Steve groans back, low and guttural, and grabs Bucky’s ass confidently, nearly lifting him with all the energy and <em> want </em> in his grip.</p><p>“Fuck,” Bucky mutters into Steve’s mouth, still giggling. “The kitchen’s a fucking <em> mess.” </em></p><p>Steve agrees with a soft hum. One hand leaves Bucky’s ass to instead wrap around the back of his neck. It’s amazingly warm and relaxing. Steve’s hand is big enough that it’s in Bucky’s hair too, partially, and he can feel his updo falling apart, but he doesn’t mind. He wants Steve.</p><p>Bucky doesn’t care about the tomato everywhere, or the fact that his socks are ruined, or even that he never got to show off his cooking skills for Steve. None of that matters. He’s with Steve, and fuck, isn’t he the luckiest bitch to ever exist?</p><p>“Dinner-” Bucky says in between fervid kisses, breaking away just enough to speak while still breathing Steve’s air, “-and cleaning can wait. I want you, Steve. Please.”</p><p>If the way that Steve easily, excitedly, scoops Bucky up and carries him to the bedroom, Steve agrees.</p><p><br/>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading!!! You're all amazing, and I hope you have a good day/night/afternoon!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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